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It hurt like hell when he finally let Saps mark him.
Fluixon knew what was coming, too. He knew the teeth in his neck would dig scars that never left, not until his skin rots off his bones. He knew it would be the most painful but the best thing he would experience in his life. He knew it meant more than just being bit, that it was a promise by nature.
He knew Saparata wouldn’t hesitate to do it, either. He wasn’t sure why.
Betas were the nothing-burger role of the world. They’re your average, unsuspecting middle ground. Alphas didn’t go for betas. Alphas went for omegas, those pretty little things that bend to their will and belonged to them wholly. They went for what they deserved, what they had been predestined to earn.
Saparata must’ve been crazy. He didn’t go for some gorgeous omega with a saccharine scent and pliant predisposition; he went for Fluixon.
Flux was fully content to go his own way. It was better for him, really, that he turned out to be the grey area that is a Beta. He would’ve been held back by being an omega, tied up in his own biology. As an alpha, things could’ve been easier, but the power came with a price. A big ego, social pressure, all the pride in the world to lose– things he was free from. He was comfortably ordinary.
Then you throw in politics, a little bit of (more than) friendship, and then one seriously clingy alpha, and things go haywire. Feelings get involved, and feelings could get hurt. Saparata was the one unaccounted for variable in his life’s plans.
Hot breath fans over the curve of his neck and snaps him out of it.
“You smell really strong,” Saparata comments. “It’s kinda bitter. You wanna back out?”
Fluixon shakes his head. He’s made it this far.
“No,” he says, looking at where he’s gotten himself. “I’m just thinking.”
“Your thinking smells like fermenting grapes.”
“Shut up. I’m mentally preparing. I don’t like pain.”
“Just say when.”
Fluixon was about to be raptured. He was about to be liberated from the freedom of being unmarked and cast into a life chained to another person. He was going to be bonded. It was an undeniable, irrefutable claim on him. Saparata was going to seal the deal between them and intertwine their lives forever.
He takes one long, slow inhale. He’s already lying down for this. Saparata is lying with him, waiting for the green light. He’s stalling. He’s gotta stop that.
“Alright,” he says, exhaling. “Let’s get it over with.”
Not another word needed to be said. Saparata bears his teeth and clamps down viciously. There isn’t even time for Fluxion to change his mind. His teeth press down on tender flesh. For a moment, it feels nice– just a nip, a sweet bite that will leave imprints and fade– before it breaks down into agony.
Teeth pinch. He clenches his jaw. It hurts. Deeper and deeper his teeth go, until skin is broken and blood pinpricks at the surface. The bite force of an alpha was stronger, just as strength all-around was. It was easier for him to bury his teeth into his skin and lay waste to what was blank.
It’s meant to hurt. The goal is to leave scars. Saparata is meant to tear him apart, bite by bite, and leave a wound that bleeds for him and him alone. The world would know that Fluixon has already been broken apart by someone, and that’s Saparata.
His skin breaks, tearing at a baser level. Rivulets of blood pool in the rapidly-forming bite marks. His heart picks up, adrenaline pumping, brain telling him to preserve himself, but he suffers through it.
People do crazy things for love.
He presses his lips tight and leaves the tiniest hole for air to go out, streamlined and high-pressure. He digs fingers into Saparata’s shirt, who in turn holds him closer. He tries to be reassuring through his body releasing whatever pheromones it reserves for this. They’re meant to get Fluixon high and make him like the pain. They’re supposed to give him bliss.
That’d be cool if it worked. Omegas are infinitely more receptive to alpha pheromones. To Fluixon, this is the equivalent of a bandaid on a stab wound. It’s preformative. It only relaxes him a little. His heart stubbornly hammers against his ribcage. The mutinous refusal of his body to relax and give in is more trouble than it’s worth.
Saps laves his tongue over the area. He laps up the blood, almost like a man possessed. From chest to waist they're pressed flush together. Saparata wants to be closer. He takes a deep inhale and continues his demolition work. It can’t smell that good.
Through the sickening smell of iron and the overpowering alpha-ness, Flux catches his own scent. It’s like red wine, aged to perfection with the slightest hint of sour. It’s bitter and sweet at the same time. It’s the only reaction to this his body can manage.
Saparata is doing a biopsy of the area around his scent gland. He’s tearing through him. Adrenaline starts to be Flux’s best friend, numbing the pain with shock. His mouth is dry. His hands want to shake. Tears form in the corners of his eyes.
It hurts so bad, and then it starts to feel good. It feels great. Every scrape of teeth to flesh is heaven. It’s a kiss. It’s a gift. Euphoric pleasure begins to well up in his veins. It pours out with his blood and he overflows with it. Pained inhales turn to dreamy sighs.
Oh god, is he getting bitched?
He didn’t care. He was in heaven. Eye-rolling, mouth-watering pleasure flooded his senses. His blood pours out like honey and Saparata licks it up like ambrosia. His limbs feel weak. He’s lighter, free of everything that’s ever weighed him down. He buzzes with newfound bliss. This was what it was all about.
He moans. It’s that good. His head is clear of thoughts. His body tells him he’s found his place, he belongs here, he has earned Saparata’s arms and his kiss and his mark. He believes this.
His head spins and it’s all hot inside there. Proximity warms him. He burns. Saparata is kerosene. Saparata is his fuel, his oxygen, his heat. He burns like a firework, shattering into a thousand beautiful parts after one lit fuse. He pants for air and the air is so thick with a mixing scent that he can taste it.
Saparata pulls away, and cracks form in the mental façade he screwed into reality. He’s got a dirty ring the color of rust around his lips, on them, smudged and gross and that’s Fluixon’s blood. Absently, his hand moves up to touch his neck, and it’s so wet there. His fingers are deeply red.
He’s lost so much blood, he’s probably going to break. Saparata chewed him up, spat him out, and he wasn’t as expendable as an omega, so it broke him. Pity. He really loved the experience, too.
So, in an act of pure neediness, he reaches for Saparata’s face and cradles his head in his hands. He looks at him, head swimming, and he parts his lips. He surrenders himself.
“Kiss me.” He demands. Saparata isn’t one to follow orders, but this was a pretty damn good exception.
This is nonverbal gospel. This was deliverance unto a paradise, a utopia, a realm without despair. Every soft slide of their lips was a verse. The sweet, gentle bites at his bottom lip threw his head into a spin. He’s reeling deliriously. This baptism of love, one where he is born again as part of a whole, drowns him in pleasure. Call it what you will, but this was a blood oath, and one that he loves so dearly.
Through hazy eyes, he sees his angel. Saparata is a mess. He’s disheveled, hair every which way and brow creased. He’s savoring. Fluixon tastes his own blood on his tongue.
Rationale leaves him knelt at the altar. So does air, really, and he should breathe. He inhales another whiff of their woven scents. He presses closer. He feels Saparata’s hand move up to touch his neck. He ghosts over the fresh bond mark on his neck. Blood follows his fingertips and it smears across Flux’s neck.
This is how I bled for you, he thinks. This is my blood, that I may shed for you.
He lived unfulfilled until now. Saparata was the missing piece. He fills the gaps, like gold in cracks of pottery. May he never be complete. May he never be content. May he never be perfect.
Saparata threads fingers into his hair, tilting his head back solely to kiss him deeper. He follows, leaning onto his back. Saps hovers over him. Satisfaction floods his veins, his senses, his mind. This could become an addiction if he isn’t careful. There’s not much he wouldn’t give himself up to right now.
Then he’s gone again, leaving a godless sense of emptiness in his wake. Flux cracks open his eyes and looks at him. He pouts and licks his lips to taste trace remains. All around, he feels heavy.
“Shit, dude,” he feels Saps’s hand press against his torn-open throat. “I don’t think you’re supposed to bleed like that.”
“I think I’m fine.” He replies. “I’m coherent. If you wen on instinct then I’ll be just fine.”
“Yeah, but, aren’t you super different from omegas–”
“So what? I’m better for you in every way.” Flux cuts him off, pouting a tad.
Saparata huffs out a laugh. “Sure, but you’re totally not in a state to mark me back. I got you good.”
“... Fair.” Flux mumbles. He is light-headed. He’s a little love-drunk, but there’s also the fact he did just bleed from the neck, too.
“I’ll let you sink your teeth in me when you come back to earth.” Saps promises. “I think I should clean that up–”
“No,” he gets interrupted. “I think you should leave it and stay with me. If you stay with me, I’ll be fine.”
He reaches for Saparata’s wrist with a shaking hand. He puts it on his chest.
“Keep watch on my heart rate. If it goes too slow, you’ll know.” He says, then pulls Saps onto him. He wraps both arms around him. He runs on autopilot.
Saparata seems to get it. His dramatic ass wasn’t dying. He keeps Saps close, just for the sake of it, still reeling in dizzy satisfaction. He knows he didn’t lose nearly enough blood to cause any damage. He’s just needy. Neediness is good when it smells like Saparata.
He either falls asleep or faints with his face shoved up into Saparata’s neck.